Deadly Thyme

by R. L. Nolen

  “Speaking.”

  “Jon Graham here. You are Mr. Tavish’s nephew?”

  “Tavy’s nephew. Yes.”

  “I just wanted to confirm details you’ve already provided, and to check that there wasn’t anything else.”

  “Only too happy to help. I can hardly take it in that he’s dead.”

  “Did you know he was dying of cancer?”

  There was a long pause. Jon waited. Finally Burns said, “He told me. He also said that he believed in living life to its fullest, you know.” There was a catch in the man’s voice. Either he was a good actor or he really was mourning his uncle.

  To give him some time to pull himself together, Jon cleared his throat. “I understand you both bought hats together?”

  “My mother used to tell me how I was the image of Uncle Tavy. She started it. Buying us the same shirt in two sizes when I was a lad. We bought the hats in Port Isaac late last month.”

  “Is there anything you can think of about that last time you visited that had you wondering about his state of mind?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. I remembered after my interview with your sergeant. My uncle was boxing some things up in his house. I asked him what that was about, and he said that he was preparing to leave. I asked him where he was going and he seemed vague. Didn’t actually answer me. Later, when I heard the details of his death and how bad his cancer was, I was shocked. But then I got the boxes in the mail. He’d sent me some of his best ship models.” It was here the man’s voice cracked and Jon could hear a sob. “Look, Mr. Graham. Could we talk some other—”

  “Don’t worry yourself further,” Jon said, quietly. “I won’t be calling you. If you have anything more to add, you’ve got my personal cell number.”

  The interview only proved that Tavy did know that he would die soon. He was parceling out his best belongings. It made Jon wonder if knowing of his imminent death made Tavy a little more careless of his safety, but the catch was that the old man loved that dog most of all. He would have held onto her until he couldn’t any longer and then seen to it that she was cared for. So, someone put an abrupt stop to Tavy’s life when the old man wasn’t looking.

  He couldn’t believe it was still Saturday. Jon put files in order, checked over reports from the police team and compiled his own reports. He never put off until tomorrow what could be accomplished today. Finished at last, he hurried back to the Hasten Inn. With the sun setting over his shoulder, he climbed the steps from street level to the entrance. He passed a sign reading “Garden” with an arrow pointing left, and he paused for a moment thinking it would be pleasant to enjoy the sunshine while he could. He entered the courtyard to sit on a bench. The cold of the stone leached through his woolen trousers.

  Tomorrow would be a big day, and yet, he still could find no plausible evidence to renew the search for Annie Butler in an official capacity. It had been two long weeks. Reports had her health as excellent, so he could only hope she was holding up. He was certain the body they now had was the other girl. She had lived in captivity almost six months, being bled out slowly, losing her health, her teeth, her hair. He hadn’t bled out his victims from long ago, so why was this man doing it now? What could he possibly gain?

  Time. The passage of time meant he was getting older. He didn’t want to get older. He couldn’t molest the child, so he took her blood instead? A vampire in the making. He could rule out organic reasons. If there were someone with a blood disorder or need, with all the information they had fed to the press, they would have known of that person through witness reports. Nothing unusual had surfaced. How was he using the blood he took? What had it to do with the passage of time? Because he craved their youth? That could be a reason.

  Children go missing all over the world. How many other victims had there been? Where were their bodies? This murderer had been practicing for a long time. That’s the reason Victoria Benton had remained alive as long as she had. He was draining their blood a little at a time, to keep them alive as long as possible. He was an expert at it.

  Where could the killer be keeping his victims and how was it no one had noticed? A basement? A hidden room? But people don’t normally hide others away without someone else becoming suspicious at odd noises. Walls aren’t so thick that screams wouldn’t go undetected with everyone on high alert, unless the perpetrator kept his prisoners some distance from civilization. If so he would still have to feed them and bring water if he wanted to keep them alive yet remain undiscovered.

  The stacked rock wall, covered in vine cast a deep shadow over the B & B’s garden entrance. Protected from strong wind, potted palms anchored the scheme of things like sentries battling with rattling fronds against the breeze. A chill passed through him as he stepped into the deep shadows of the evening garden.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that something didn’t fit in with the rest of the garden. A figure waited patiently. He turned sharply. From the shadows Mrs. Butler stood staring at him.

  “Light breaks where no sun shines;

  Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart

  Push in their tides.”

  – Dylan Thomas –

  39

  Sunday morning

  Day fifteen

  Jon fought sleep then slept anyway. Images of Tavy alive and of Tavy dead floated in and out of his dreams. He kept trying to apologize to the old man, only to watch him turn away and disappear into mists. Then the nightmare really began—a table, a black cross grid on a large, white piece of paper with him racing to stick letters squarely into the puzzle. He knew the answers and inserted the letters as quickly as he could, rushing against a ticking clock. He couldn’t move fast enough. The letters screeched. He overturned the table. The table came back around to attack. He fell through a thick, gray mist smelling of mint mouthwash. He woke with a thud. The screeches hadn’t stopped—gulls.

  He lifted his head off the pillow. A headache pounded around inside his skull, louder than the birds. What had he had last night for drink? Wine—he remembered the wine—had he had too much? The few locals he had spoken to hadn’t been helpful. He pushed himself up.

  Pots and pans clashed from a long way off—or was it church bells? Probably both, with it being Sunday and with Mrs. McFarland bustling about downstairs in her kingdom.

  Clawing his way to the door, he opened it. A rush of cooked breakfast odor hit him. With a groan and much effort, he stumbled down the hall, gripping his pajama bottoms so they wouldn’t slip to his ankles.

  Before leaving his room, he had checked his smart phone. Half ten. How had he slept so late? The ringing church bells seemed far away. He took church in small doses when he had to, like medicine. Although he didn’t think about God often, he had come to a place, not so long ago, where he realized he had squeezed an incorporeal God into a corporeal place the size of his smart phone—silly, really. Improvements should be made, adjustments to his beliefs, because he did believe in a higher power, one that was bigger than his mobile.

  All this thinking likely stemmed from his discussion with Ruth last night. When did I start thinking of her as Ruth? Even if she had asked him to call her that, protocol dictated he remain formal in his dealings with the victim’s mother. He intended to follow protocol, even though she was devastatingly beautiful.

  Their conversation had rattled him. What if he were in her position? Would he have the kind of faith she had? Struggling with it as she was, she still held a deeply rooted faith. Would he feel as confident that his loved one would come back to him if their roles were reversed? He doubted it. And he hated to see that she felt that way. It would just lead to a soul destroying blow if her daughter was dead.

  Wincing from the cold water he splashed on his face, he thought about how we live in a sinful world and the best people have to endure it as hell. He was leading a group of investigators today in a murder inquiry. How was he supposed to present facts and set about leading a team of investigators in a clear and concise way with his
own thinking so muddled?

  The sun shone as he climbed into his car. Distant dark clouds foretold a storm. He stopped at the hospital. Trewe was snoring. On the bedside tray were the remains of his breakfast: one empty juice container. Must mean more tests.

  He took off for the incident room in Perrin’s Point. He would keep the car nearby because he might need it later. But driving meant he had to go the long route through the streets lined with cottages and shops. He passed a field of daffodils. On the sea side of the road to his left, a lopsided tree punctuated the bare rolling hills, and between hills were glimpses of water, the palest blue against a pale and endless beyond.

  How would they catch the killer with no leads? The only thing left to do was to restart a full-scale search for Annie Butler again. They couldn’t afford to wait for DNA.

  He put a call in to Superintendent Tom Bakewell. He began by proposing another search.

  Bakewell exploded. “What? Have you lost your mind?”

  “We’ve had two murders now. It will be three unless she is found.”

  “The murder investigations team found nothing to suggest that the girl is still alive and nothing to suggest that the body is not the girl’s. You’re dreaming, wishful thinking, and all that.”

  “My ‘dreaming’ and ‘wishful thinking,’ as you call it, have nothing to do with … Never mind. I believe the search for the girl should begin immediately and should be much more thorough and broader in scope.”

  “You’ve got something on your mind besides the girl, and it may not have anything to do with anything, but I can hear it in your voice. I know you too well.”

  Jon took a deep breath. “I would rather not talk about it.”

  “You must.”

  “It’s a stupid crush on the victim’s mother.”

  “Use yer loaf, man,” Bakewell huffed—Jon could tell he was considering what he would say next—“How will you feel about the poor woman next week, next month, next year? I’ve never thought you anything but the sanest young man I’ve ever known, but now this. The problem is your vision is clouded. I don’t think you’ve been a bit rational in anything. This is where this request is coming from.”

  Life is a fragile thing. It was true that seeing the victims of murder had a sobering effect. Dealing with the families was an extremely sensitive sort of thing. Special officers were trained to do just that. He was not one of them. He said, “I believe I’m being reasonable. Another search for the girl—”

  Bakewell interrupted, “Your timing—”

  “And you’re one to educate me on the finer points of love?”

  “Are you referring to something that happened over twenty years ago? I could have you recalled, inspector!”

  Jon registered this. His job really was on the line here. He swallowed. “You could have at least warned me.”

  “Never mind about that. Trewe and I have more than the past that keeps us at odds. Have you ever spoken to the man?

  “Of course! He does his job well. I haven’t a notion about the other thing.”

  “And that is precisely why you are there.”

  “Murder has gotten in the way.”

  “Well, just keep your bleedin’ snout away from Mrs. Butler. What a time to think of such things.”

  “I’ve fallen for her without a hint of anything on her part.”

  “DI Bennet is more than willing to take your place. You’ve got three days before you either have some concrete evidence and a report on my desk or I send him down. Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good,” Bakewell said, then he murmured, “Hope you come to your senses before you make a fool of yourself.”

  Annie flew away, out of the cave, straight across the sea to a warm place—Texas. Her American relatives waited for her. Hugs. Warmth. The smell of food cooking. Chattering speeches.

  Loud screeches.

  She cringed, covered her ears. No, not warm. She had never been to Texas that she could remember. She lay on her pallet covered in the heavy quilt. The gulls beyond the door made a terrible racket.

  Would she ever get to go visit her mother’s family? She hardly knew them, though they were connected on the Internet. She’d never felt her grandmother’s hug. She imagined it would be much like Sally’s smothering hugs. She wouldn’t mind it if she could only get loose.

  Her mum never spoke of her father. She’d peppered her with loads of questions. Where was he? What did he do for a living? What did he do that was so wrong that she couldn’t see him?

  Was the creeper her father? No, he couldn’t be. A father would never be so cruel to his daughter.

  She wanted to go away again—go away in her mind. Hours and hours would go by while she thought and imagined and dreamed of not being where she was—in the real. She hated the real.

  The thumping began again. She hated the thumping, the tick of gears. It came from behind, inside the wall.

  The first time she heard that thumping sound she had been dreaming of lying on the beach with her toes in warm sand. The sound of waves became a thumping hum. Then the sound was sucked away. That split moment or two of silence forced her to snap out of her dream and sit up in a horrid crash landing.

  The bowl from the previous night’s food was gone. She hadn’t heard the twig door. A bit of rag hung midway up, in a crack on the wall behind her. The creeper had another way in, a secret door.

  She didn’t need to hear him any more to know he was there or that he had been there while she was out of it. He left a sickly sweet smell behind.

  She curled up, trembling. She pulled the mattress pad over her head and clutched tight fists against her chest.

  There were more jars of blood. Hers was there now.

  She woke up again. In front of her was a little crate. On the crate was paper and a pen.

  Now to put her plan into action. She had to make a way for her mother to escape.

  40

  PERRIN’S POINT INCIDENT ROOM

  The incident room had been scrubbed of its former fishy smell. Come to find out, the development had stalled. Apparently, the economic disaster affecting the entire world had reached even the deepest of pockets in Cornwall. Funny how the bigger picture can take years to trickle down so far. There was talk of things looking up in America, and the political-television talking heads were taking this to mean this “hope”—whether real or imagined—would affect the rest of Europe eventually. At present, unemployment roiled on this side of the great pond.

  The building had been renovated to look much as it must have for a couple of centuries, with brick, crumbling stucco, and purposely aged gray board. According to the notice board, the new “old” façade was to attract the buyer looking for a bit of history to live under, but with all the latest in electronics and appliances. Even the open sheds along the side of the building facing the waterfront contained barrels artistically placed, as they must have been in past centuries to hold salted herring. Now the sheds were parking spots and the barrels collected rainwater to syphon to well-placed garden allotments for future residents.

  Inside, plaster looked as if it were still drying. Electrical outlets were operational in some areas, and in others wires sprouted from holes in the walls. Small portable heaters sat here and there to take the nip out of early morning or late night chills. One side of the room was lined with partitioned cubicles used for interviews. When Jon entered, there were only four officers present, their pasty faces and dull eyes glued to their computers. What happened to the dozens of officers considered the brightest and best combined to form the murder investigations team that Trewe was heading?

  “Haven’t I called a morning meeting?” Jon asked, amazed. For the moment, at least, he was in charge of the Murder Investigations Team.

  “Yes, sir. But when you weren’t here by nine, the others went for something to eat,” one of the officers ventured, quickly looking away.

  Noting the name and rank of the young man, Jon said, “Sergeant Bickers,
right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sergeant, call, text, tweet—I want them back here immediately.”

  Within ten minutes the room had filled with officers. Jon used that in-between time to get the names of the three officers who were present when he arrived. He called the meeting to order. “While I don’t expect I can fill your DCI’s shoes exactly, I cannot believe you would have done the same were he available to address you this morning.”

  Heads nodded sheepishly, murmurs of apology could be heard from all around the room.

  Jon held a hand up to an ear, “Sorry, didn’t quite catch that. Did you say you would be here next time I call a meeting?”

  “They will be, sir.” Stark stood up from his desk. “The men are exhausted, sir. They’ve been working almost round the clock since Tavy’s death.”

  “Right, and I don’t want to hear about that again. First, I expect you to make time for breaks. Take it in shifts if you need to. No one can function properly without sleep. I won’t have it. Anyone here who has not slept in more than twenty hours is dismissed to find a place to sleep. I won’t have zombies working for me. That’s ridiculous. DCI Trewe is in hospital. I don’t want any others to join him. I need every man I can find. We have more on our plate than ever with Tavy’s death. And I’ll tell you right now, I think there is worse to come. So, those who need sleep are dismissed; please report back in eight hours.”

  Seven of the twenty-two officers left. They really did look dreadful. Constable Bickers was one of them—the man could barely move. As the door closed behind them, Jon turned to the remaining men. “Right. There is something I will share with you that I believe you need to know. Tavy was dying of cancer. He may not have had the strength to fight off an attack, which might be the reason there were no signs of defensive wounds. His computer was used after his death. Several threatening emails and notes to police officers were left in Tavy’s documents file. As most of you know from reports and interviews, Tavy would have been the last to write such garbage. DCI Trewe received a note taped to his door yesterday morning, and it certainly wasn’t Tavy’s ghost who put it there. I want anyone who receives anything, even the slightest hint of a threat, to report the action to me. I want all such documents to be kept and compiled.